


His hand will be against every man, and every man's hand against him.

by justabore



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Batjokes, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 22:30:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21381658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justabore/pseuds/justabore
Summary: One good thing about being locked up in a madhouse is that Arthur gets a lot of telly time.
Relationships: Arthur Fleck/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 2
Kudos: 78





	His hand will be against every man, and every man's hand against him.

One good thing about television is that you can get all the truth in the universe via a tiny, silvery cube.

There’s the discovery channel, tells you all about the portions of this world that are meticulously calculated to be out of reach. There’s Disney stuff teaching kids to imagine to be someone they’ll never be. Then there’s the gossiping on morning shows to keep citizens updated about their majesty the riches. 

One good thing about being locked up in a madhouse is that Arthur gets a lot of telly time.

For this good reason, though he had not stepped one inch outside of this building for the past decade, it was as if he had raised his beloved Bruce himself.

Arthur Fleck knew Bruce Wayne like the inside of his palm, of which he had been observing with great enthusiasm before they gave him the jacket.

Never mind the detours, Arthur knew Bruce. He was still a boy last time they met, look who'd grown into a proper young man now. The answer was Bruce. Bruce, always-in-his-white-cashmere-turtleneck Bruce, he had survived the havoc of being alive. As the media started to let go of what happened that night, as attention was gradually shifting from his loss to his fashion taste, Bruce survived, making everybody proud.

He started to be seen among people. Photos were taken outside of nightclubs and by the riversides. So many friends, girlfriends, he was seen among so many people, not a single one of them could have delivered half of his poise. He was such a natural sovereign among the people, a prince mingling with his subjects only to get a taste of real life.

Every time his face–one that had been selected and shaped by a PR professional somewhere indeed, appeared on the TV screen, he would put a smile onto Arthur’s face. His blue eyes, his strong jaw, his messy hair, the resemblance was uncanny. Anybody could see that he has gotten not so much from the father than from the brother undisclosed.

Arthur looked forward to the day when Bruce would finally have the time and courage (why not) to come and meet him for a long overdue reunion. It was promised in the beginning. It was written to the planet of Pluto or whichever fucking mud ball that was the furthest from earth.

When Bruce finally came in, that is, coming in alone, without all those human ornaments that he hanged up against his surroundings at all time; when they finally met, Arthur would rejoice in the evidence of how he had fulfilled what was obliged of the firstborn. Oh how he had saved the baby boy from the tumbling illusion of his natural born habitat. How he had dug, with all his shivering might, underneath the armory of a white turtleneck and planted the necessary.

Amid all of his pious worshippers, the jewels and the incenses, the sweetness and the spice, Bruce would always remain what he was left as. He would recognize pain and struggle at first glance and stick to them since. He would never be able to free himself from the one thing that everybody else was so good at excusing themselves from. He would always get the joke.

And Arthur would rejoice.


End file.
